


Watching the Watchful

by HAL1377



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Childhood, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Time Skips, With a plot!, canonverse, some slight angst, unless I make a mistake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8272333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HAL1377/pseuds/HAL1377
Summary: Kenma observes. Shuffles away from classmates who pull their chairs too close, blends with recesses in a crowd, wanes from umbrellas snagging his elbow on the train. He mimics and hides where the best comfort lies in those silent spaces. Yet for all his perception, Kuroo still regards each of his most discreet facets and knows him well.A collection of short oneshots out of chronological order that still move toward a cohesive plot.





	1. Blue Hours

**September**

**Kuroo’s Last Year of High School**

* * *

  


The blue light of a near dusk sky crawls an unbroken line across the gymnasium floor. It skitters in stretched shadows, swelling dim arcs where equipment has been left in place. A clatter comes. Heavy doors settle back into their frame as a pair of feet step inward, breaking the yet untouched scene. But then their owner fades too. Merging with the stage of his present, his future, and so many memories past yet persistent.

Kuroo does not expect anyone else to remain when he enters long after their regular practice has come to its end. Arriving with an unusual need for solidarity. Still, he supposes it is something he can afford himself. Surely the last year of high school is a time for reflection? With the final tournament close and a decision of university mounting he finds the need to shift inward, to _think_. If only a little.

A mess of volleyballs relax in a sprinkled assortment on the ground, haphazard in their placement along either side of the net that is still standing. It is odd, he thinks, certain the team had finished putting all the equipment away before retreating to the locker rooms hours prior. Yet as Kuroo strides in quiet taps across the wood slats, his eyes observe a familiar silhouette laying in the corner. 

Kenma’s body is curled loosely on its side, practice jersey creased in irregular folds and oversized shorts fix to his thighs with near dry sweat. Those deft hands crimp into gentle fists before reaching again. A slow succession of clench and unwind, clench and unwind, clench and let go. 

Hairs are flicked carelessly around his face, wavering against Kenma’s cheek with each breath. Like a cat that instinctively follows the sun, Kenma has twisted himself into the last square of shine trickling from a corner window. It is in that final lingering glow, that concluding vivid image, that the entirety of Kenma’s hair turns to a dash of gold. Even its darkest roots vanish into a glimmer. 

Kuroo can feel the warmth when he crouches nearby, placing a palm against the floor and peering toward the heavy lids covering Kenma’s eyes. There are deep marks beneath them, crescents of black hinting toward overwork and lack of sleep. Kuroo can relate only too well. Still he finds his lips quirking to a faint smile at the sight, thinking of how it means Kenma has found something of value. Something worth the work. And perhaps that was all he ever wanted for his friend. His _best_ friend.

His hand is drawn to something more in that moment, a transitory emotion Kuroo long since believed he had learned to suppress. Two fingers drag a line through an emerging cowlick, coming to push away the few strands obscuring the vision before him. Kuroo draws in a jagged breath. Waits. Holds it there for as long as he can. Before his lungs become too full, too tight, too constricting. Mingling with that potent clench of his chest that steals his oxygen for a completely different reason than his own stupid actions.

He lets his hand drop, wisping past a shoulder before returning to his own lap. It is enough to make Kenma murmur, a faint sigh of distorted words as he emerges from sleep. The tension twines in Kuroo’s chest, like a hand clenching onto his heart and squeezing before lending a firm pull, drawing him forward before letting go. 

But forever staying close, by his side. A kindness he aims to return. 

Kenma mumbles again and Kuroo realizes his palm has not paused completely, trajectory in motion along the curve of Kenma’s spine. He can feel the knobs of each link, the pieces that hold Kenma together, bolster him up, and make him strong. Two tight muscles shift on either side and Kuroo glances upward to notice Kenma roll over. His torso pivots to meet Kuroo. Bleary eyes blink, a weary cadence which serves as a greeting.

“You still talk in your sleep,” Kuroo says, casual grin in place and both hands slyly brought back inward. He adjusts so they move to his pockets where he hopes he remembers to keep them.

Kenma just looks at him, not even raising an eyebrow. But the obvious question is still there, hovering unspoken but blatant in the minimal space between them.

Kuroo does not ask it. Does not question Kenma’s seemingly newfound persistence for volleyball. He is not even sure Kenma would expect him to. Instead he continues with that genuine smile, because it is always there. For Kenma. Intentionally or otherwise it simply belongs. 

“Don’t worry, it’s still cute,” he teases. “Like when you were a kid and I was always trying to figure out what you were saying.” _Because I was convinced anything you deemed worthy to actually speak must hold all the secrets of the universe. I probably still do._ He does not articulate the thought, even though it makes its way in rampant spirals through his mind. Pressing forward and reminding him of everything he tends to leave unsaid nowadays. Except that, unlike Kenma’s brand of quiet, the reasoning for his holds a different sort of weight. 

Kenma merely huffs as he adjusts to sit, legs crossing and ankles weaving beneath his knees to compact his frame in a seemingly diminished size. It takes a moment before he does respond and when Kenma's words connect with the air Kuroo is tugged from his musings once more.

“Did you ever figure it out?” Kenma’s eyes beam while his mouth maintains that habitual flat line. And it is so bright, so fierce, so utterly _intense_ that Kuroo cannot help but wonder how people could ever miss the power Kenma holds. Certainly it has always been bigger than his body has the capacity to occupy. A soundless command which manifest in all of the silent ways to connect with, analyze, and influence his surroundings. 

Kuroo shakes his head, more at the duality he loves than as a response to the question. Yet it fits there too. Slotting into place as they always do. “No, not yet. But I’m going to keep working on it.” His grin grows further, “It’s not like I ever give up on you.”

Kenma throws his head back, tossing himself to the floor. He sprawls on his back, arms flung to the sides and legs cast outward. There is an unexpected tautness to the curve of his quads, sweeping downward to the coil of calves that have been thoroughly worked over. Short sleeves of his t-shirt expose a groove where biceps bow into smooth deltoids and Kuroo has to marvel at all of Kenma’s perfect pieces so easily neglected in a crowd of overzealous athletes. At some point Kenma had learned to blend even without Kuroo to take the spotlight for him. Not a boastful bone in his body.

Kuroo does not think it a shame, rather all the more impressive for those who can view the strength in what is so well hidden. Maybe that is selfish on his part but Kuroo likes it anyway. 

Kenma takes his phone from a pocket, scrolling down the screen a moment before setting it on the floor. Headphones niche into his ears while eyes remain on the ceiling. Even so Kuroo still gets the definite perception Kenma is aware of him. His actions, subtle adjustments, even his thoughts.

Kuroo plucks one earbud from Kenma’s auricle, trailing its cord over to his own ear. He settles down too, stretching out as Kenma had done and finding peace in the position. It makes him think of the one time Bokuoto had been signed up for yoga as a joke and ended up pulling Kuroo along with him. At the very end, when they laid down on the mats, probably more sweaty than they should have been, and just . . . felt calm. He had not been particularly limber but he gets the feeling it is something Kenma would be good at. Mimicry comes so easily to him there is a good chance he could pull off some advanced poses with little preparation. Kuroo puffs out a laugh at that thought, a content feeling tickling his insides.

“What?” Kenma asks, not sounding nearly as nervous as he usually does when that word bursts from his lips, unbidden. When waif thoughts run awry.

“Just thinking we’ll have to clean all this up again,” he smiles at the ceiling, still not making eye contact with Kenma.

A pause. Then, “No. You weren’t.”

Kuroo does look at him now, and is surprised to find Kenma’s nose so close.

“No,” he admits, “I wasn’t.”

Kenma’s eyes gleam in the ardor of a smoldering sunset just beyond and Kuroo is capable of grasping only a rough breath before Kenma’s hair is flitting along his chin.

“I know,” Kenma whispers, lips a soft caress on the shell of Kuroo’s ear. “ _Tetsu_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dates will be added at the top of each chapter to hopefully help keep everything straight as the story develops. For reference, Japan begins their school year in April and the first term goes through the end of July. The second from early September until the end of December.
> 
> Any comments or suggestions you have are always greatly appreciated, thanks for reading!
> 
> Up Next: Kuroo wants a friend, Kenma doesn't see why it has to be him.


	2. He was Born a Tiger

**May**

**Kuroo’s First Year of Middle School**

* * *

  


Kuroo is barely out of elementary school when he learns people can say and mean two different things. It makes no sense to someone so used to sharing their all. To letting the world in and giving everything back in turn. Now he thinks, scuffing on his trainers in the genkan of Kenma’s home, that his friend has known that fact for much longer. And he wonders if this trick is one Kenma has ever had occasion to use on him. He hopes not.

Kenma’s mother smiles and Kuroo thinks that, at least, is probably a true emotion. But when she says, “Kenma, your friend is waiting. Go and have fun.” What she means is something more like, _I told you about this a week in advance and you are NOT getting out of it. He is a nice boy, maybe he’ll help draw you out more. Plus you still don’t have any friends. I want you to be happy._ Then she is waving, handing Kenma a knapsack before Kuroo tugs him through the door.

The pack is overheavy, crammed with far more than a kid could find use for with the few hours they have on their own. It is not as though they are ever permitted to wander far in any case. Since Kenma’s family moved into the city two years ago, he and Kuroo have been in the same class. But their excursions have been limited to lunch in the school cafeteria, a movie night instigated by Kuroo, and one lucky encounter at the grocery store. Kenma’s mother does not realize Kuroo has had little success finding friends too. Making them is simple, unearthing the right people, or really anyone in his part of the neighborhood, has been significantly more of a challenge. Kuroo believes he can convince Kenma they will be different. Real partners. In sync, stable, together.

Kenma straightens the bag on his shoulders while his mother surveys them from the steps. _Don’t forget your sunscreen. I packed it for you. There are games in there too because I know you’ll feel more comfortable if you have something to fall back on._

“Come home in time for supper,” her head shifts to the side, eyes observant and shrewd. A trait Kenma has always claimed for his own. _Don’t come back before then. Push yourself today. Try and like something new._

“Bye,” Kenma says before making a slow turn toward the sidewalk beyond and Kuroo’s beckoning hand. _Don’t make me go._

“Goodbye,” his mother replies, watching until Kuroo has hauled Kenma out of sight and down the lane. _You will enjoy it if you give him a chance. I love you._

Kuroo wonders if Kenma has ever given those words back. To her. To anyone. He decides to be the one to try. Wants to show Kenma places and activities and people worth love without fearing a lack of reciprocation. Today he starts with volleyball. 

The sand court at their local park has only a few strings of net remaining, frayed and peeling away at every chance. Ragged threads swing slack from their frame with a mere minor breeze to prompt that sway. As a spectacle it is far from impressive. As a place to encourage this emergent friendship, Kuroo deems it perfect. Roots of an aged oak have grown from the ground. Rumpling the terrain and creating easy loops where an inattentive step could catch, tripping wayward toes to send their owner to the pebbles speckled below. A high sun reflects the day’s heat. Inspiring park-goers to chop their venture short, return to some couch beside a fan and share an ice pop. Kuroo expects Kenma would prefer to do exactly that. 

Yet Kenma stays. His head may be tilted low, focus on the hands plucking at the sideseam of his shorts. But he has not left, outright refusing Kuroo’s company for the calm of his usual routine. This, Kuroo knows, is a point to bring determination. If he is to show Kenma the world then they have a lot to get through today. There is just so much! 

“Here, you can start,” he says, ready to offer that slice of jubilation and tossing the ball without hesitancy. 

It smacks Kenma square in the face. 

His vision had been too fixated elsewhere, reactions lethargic as he attempted not to engage. Filtering the world around him through a screen of scrutiny. Kenma does not move when the ball thumps to the ground and the arc of his nose blooms red and agitated. If possible he seems to be looking down with a resurgence of stubborn determination not to become involved. Remain in his own orbit as long as he can.

“Ah! I’m so sorry!” Kuroo blasts forward, gripping at Kenma’s shoulders and tilting his face higher even though he knows Kenma does not prefer human contact. Because he might be hurt. Because Kuroo needs to be there. Because this is significant.

“I’m sorry! Oh man I thought you were paying attention. I mean you’re always paying attention. Aren’t you? Watching everyone all the time and what’s going on. I . . .I’m sorry.” His hands jitter around Kenma’s face, uncertain but fretting through the vibration of his fingertips. 

Kenma peers up then, almost seeming confused? Surprised? Kuroo is not entirely sure.

“Here! I’ll make it up to you,” he reaches toward the ground, grabbing the ball to set it in Kenma’s arms. “You can chuck it at me so we’ll be even.”

“. . . No.” He says after a minute, “You don’t want that.”

“C’mon, friends are suppose to share everything. So it’s only fair.” When it looks like Kenma is faltering Kuroo moves closer to his personal space. “Hit me!”

But Kenma’s mind is completely elsewhere and he appears to be barely capable of staring at the sphere held between his palms. “F—friends?” He stammers out. To Kuroo it sounds an awful lot like, _I didn’t want to be your friend._

“Sorry I don’t make the rules. That’s just how it’s gotta be.”

“No it doesn’t. You’re making things up.”

Kuroo feels an idea gathering, towing its fragments together in the recesses of his brain. He prods a thumb in Kenma’s side. “Got to,” he says, working to aggravate. “That’s the way these things go.” He steps nearer again, feet now bracketing Kenma’s.

“No.” _I won’t do it. You’ll eventually leave so why not go now? You’re already mad. If I reject someone first before they can reject me it keeps things safer._

“Come on.” _I want to be your friend. I mean I just said that! It’ll make you feel less pressure, show the care can persist even after a hurt._

“No!” This time it comes as a near yell, louder than he has ever heard Kenma speak before. A hand rises, shoving Kuroo’s body away, the claustrophobia of forced constriction finally breaking him. The volleyball spills to the sand below and Kenma tumbles back, sneaker catching on a tree root as he plunges down.

Kuroo reaches, some instinctual attempt to catch or save. The back of Kenma’s hand strikes his cheek amidst the fall before they are both dropping in tandem. 

His body lands with a smack, back collapsing into knots from a bush and spikes of fallen twigs. One pointed stone jams at his side. Kenma is laying half on him, shuddering a bit with what Kuroo recognizes as nerves. The boy rolls to stand, trembling to unwilling legs that prepare to bolt at the ire he dreads. But Kuroo entwines a scraggly arm around his waist, returning him to their prior position.

And he laughs. Laughs because it has been too long since he has had anyone to appreciate these stupid moments with. Laughs for the joy fizzling in his chest. Laughs for the promise of another interaction tomorrow. But mostly laughs for the scrunched up look on his friend’s face. Still tentative but fighting to feel happy.

“This is great, isn’t it?” He says with a hum. “I’m really glad you came today.”

“Really?” Kenma is trying not to look convinced but the crinkles around his eyes recede, pulling in hope and a subtle heightening of cheeks.

“Yeah. Volleyball’s great, you’re great. It’ll be even more great when we actually play.”

“Oh?” 

“Mmm,” he nods, enthusiasm shining. “But we should do some of your stuff later too,” Kuroo adds, shoving the bag on Kenma’s back to the side. “Looks like your mom packed a bunch.”

“Alright. But . . . that can come after. If . . . if you want.”

“Well we’ve got plenty of time,” Kuroo replies, beginning to tug both of them to a more comfortable sitting position. “Your mom said we can’t be back until we’ve played a lot and dinner’s ready, right?”

“Y–yeah, she did say that.” Kuroo studies him process the implications of those words. That he paid attention, that he said we instead of you, that he cares enough to listen. He can tell Kenma wants to trust him.

“Ok then, let’s go!” He snags Kenma’s hand in his, toting him along. “We can start with the sets, cuz it’s important to connect with the ball. Plus you’re always watching people so it’ll be easy to know what they expect and what they need.” Kuroo begins to show how he situates his hands and Kenma copies in an instant. Drifting through the motions with a concentrated ease.

_Hey, you don’t have to rush. Pacing is crucial too. I promise never to leave you behind._

_Thank you._

Kuroo sees his strength too. A tiger working tirelessly to hide his stripes. It reminds him of the wild cars with brushed candy colors in downtown Tokyo. Like owning a Ferrari you only ever drive at 10mph on worn roads. Painted gray to blend where it was born to thrive. Kuroo shakes his head. Kenma is more interesting than a Ferrari. Cuter too. He decides the tiger makes the most sense. 

_We’ll get you there. But honestly, maybe you never needed me to begin with. I just happened to construct a key that fit when you decided to lock all your potential away. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way._

_Me neither. But don’t get too cocky._

Kenma tosses him the ball and Kuroo spikes it directly into the net. They are both still short enough that launching it over takes work. But they can make it. Together. Kuroo likes that idea and understands how Kenmas does too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was the trip to the past? It was not exactly what I intended to happen but I began writing and this is where things ended up. The story is turning into something of a fun experiment.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with it for ch.2! Suggestions are always more than welcome.
> 
> Up Next: Train tracks and erratic hearts sound awfully similar.


	3. On the Beat

**16 October**

**Kuroo’s Last Year of Middle School**

* * *

  


The train clacks against the tracks somewhere low beneath their seats, pacing out a dependable tempo that releases in rumbles along the links of Kuroo’s vertebrae. He holds to those vibrations at each point. Pressing deep to the worn plastic where bench meets wall and imagining himself as an individual part of the flow. Some sliver adrift within the greater course. It reminds Kuroo of a clock marking each moment with its sound. A continued indication of the moments sliding past.

Tha-thump tha-thump . . . tha-thump tha-thump . . . tha-thump tha-thump. 

Today that prompt for the future leaves him wondering. Because next year high school begins and Kenma will remain behind for a beat longer. But he tells himself nothing will change, because at this point he is pretty certain nothing ever can. They have known each other far too long for worries of separation to split his musings now. Have harrowed plenty, and will wade through more. Still, it feels strange. The prospect of confronting that cadence alone. 

A glimpse in Kenma’s direction shows his head remains curved toward the PSP in his hands, some game lighting the screen and sending the architecture of Kenma’s face flashing with blinks of vibrant color. 

Kenma has been different recently. Subtle fluctuations further cultivated each time Kuroo reads him. It is not exactly anything frightening or even all that severe. Kuroo thinks if it were perhaps this would be easier. He could have identified it sooner. Found that specific sticking point and liberated the lapse between them. Had some sort of conversation where he did most of the talking and Kenma listened and understood and engaged in every consequential way. Soothing their aches. 

It is not that anything intrinsic has been reformed. Yet the small disturbed pieces of their usual tend to bring Kuroo the most apprehension. It secrets itself away in the plush coral bend of Kenma’s lips. The way they manuever when he concentrates, or hums, or opens up for one of those extraordinary smiles. Hides in the thin dip of Kenma’s neck, merging down to the severe divot of collarbones. Concealed where his shoulders crest in jagged points, each a rock where navigators foray and shatter their hopes to splinters. His features an amalgam of hard and soft. Comfort and private power.

Everything obscures beneath the way Kenma appears to gleam when Kuroo permits his mind to ramble. Rough but pure when held by the lens of the right light. 

Kuroo believes that dyad might be beautiful. 

And of course Kenma is. Always has been. Kenma was the quiet lovable one growing up. The first to pass beyond the traits of traditional childhood and stretch his mind further. To fashion a space for himself where the world was serenely his. Separated from the pry of other juvenile hands. Where his fingers reached for Kuroo in that same tantalizing way as they still do. Bringing an agreement to hold snug and merge their lives. Kuroo could forever appreciate that.

Maybe this time he can return the favor. Kuroo thinks he will be able to find a place and settle it for Kenma. Make friends and prepare to welcome him the same way they continually have. Both can find relief in their norm.

Yet this, this is so _new_. He never used to know how it feels to choke on your own emotion. To neglect the words he meant to iterate because those golden eyes have agreed to drag into his. To encounter true happiness in nothing but a train ride.

Three people get on at the next stop and as the doors fasten an extra body comes to sit on Kenma’s other side. For anyone else the adjustment would be indistinct. But Kuroo apprehends that trivial alteration. Where Kenma moves ever so faintly to the left.

Kenma is dazzling and Kuroo trembles when their shoulders connect. A clatter in his heart.

Tha-thump tha-thump . . . tha-thump tha-thump . . . tha-thump tha-thump. 

Kuroo is certain they will have more time in the future and there is time enduring now. So he smiles, content in the knowledge of how firmly they have become entwined. 

“Hey, Kenma.”

Kenma’s head swings toward him, thumbs still moving across the screen.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?”

Kenma shrugs, attention returning in full to his game. As though Kuroo’s question does not hold enough weight for him to answer. 

“You really don’t have any plans?” He tries again, almost amused.

Seeming to sense Kuroo is going to turn this into a full conversation, with need for reciprocation, Kenma drops the PSP to his lap and flicks it off.

“I don’t think so,” he eventually replies. It emerges as more of a question than a statement. Tentative and cautions, like he expects Kuroo to rope him into a distasteful activity or remind him of an unpleasant event he had forcibly forgotten to plan for.

Kuroo grins at that perturbed face. “Well I have plans.”

“Ok . . .”

“Kenma!” His hand shifts to Kenma’s shoulder with the exclamation, “You do know what day it is tomorrow!” Kuroo peers closely into that face for a hint of recognition, “Right?”

“Uhh,” a pause, “Tuesday?”

Kuroo watches him, waiting for the moment Kenma’s realization comes. There is a slow build and then, yes, there it is, the brightening of the eyes and the thinned purse of his mouth. But it keeps going, an extra crackle in his forehead and a deeper furrow in the dimple of his cheek.

“I thought we ended ice cream Mondays because it got too cold. Are we starting something else?” Kuroo cannot help but grin, shaking his head. That would be a good idea though; he misses that bit of something to look forward to on the otherwise most boring day of the week. He makes a mental note to find a bakery with good pies they can use as a substitute. Kenma would like that.

It is a poke of stubborn irritation that finally meets Kuroo’s attempts, one swift finger jabbed between his ribs. “I don’t want to go to the shops again, we were just there this weekend.” Kenma stops, seemingly certain he has hit on the idea Kuroo had been forming before he adds, “I know you said you didn’t have time to find everything you wanted but I can’t imagine you have all that much money left to spend.”

“Tomorrow’s your birthday!” He sways his arms around as though they can possibly illustrate how important this should be. Kenma probably dislikes the attention his vigor brings, a few extra passengers tilting their heads to obtain a better view of the scene.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m _not_ being stupid. _You’re_ the one who forgot!”

The train dings to indicate their arrival before Kenma responds. Kuroo wonders if there was actually going to be any kind of retort. Their sneakers trundle down the steps and Kenma slackens the tie encircling his neck. It is a gradual action, casual enough that Kuroo does not directly notice what Kenma surmises next. 

An item squeezes into Kuroo’s palm.

Its size is not particularly grand, a plain rectangle wrapped simply in brown paper. Slim red string loops abnormally around the middle, forming a sharp bow at each tip with too many threads jutting from its sides. He wonders at the peculiar shape. Tiny cat ears and whiskers, he decides. 

“What’s this?”

“Your birthday’s in another month anyway.”

Kuroo cannot help it. He heaves Kenma into a warm hug, arms twisting toward his back and hooking into the wool of his sweater. His cheek slots into place atop Kenma’s head where he can perceive the vague fragrance of soap Kenma borrowed from his shower a day ago. They meet at every corner. It feels like more of a home than Kuroo has ever had, which might be something to think about. But not quite yet. And then Kenma is gripping at Kuroo’s shirt too, fingers tracing up his side until Kuroo shivers. He allows his weight to relax against Kenma and is given a soft mumble in turn. Maybe he holds on for too long amidst a street of passive faces. But this is Kenma. And he can never let go. 

“Just didn’t want to lose it, or something, you know.” Kuroo hears the barest hint of those words when Kenma’s face is smooshed into his shoulder. “But it’s ok if you do, lose it that is. It’s really no big deal.”

“Hell no!” He says, separating enough to ensure Kenma gets the message. “I’m keeping this forever. Whatever it is! It’s from you so it’d be special no matter what.” He is acting like his ten-year-old self again and cannot find a reason to care.

Kenma responds in quiet tones, but Kuroo still hears. “I just didn’t want you to have to wait.” He sees the option Kenma is granting him. A more profound implication both know is there. But Kuroo already made his decision. Ready to endure for as much time as it takes.

Even as they separate to continue home, Kuroo thinks this is a faultless day. Kenma’s hand coils lightly in his. 

“I’m going to save it,” Kuroo says. “Until I can give you yours too.”

And there it is. That perfect smile tucked into the secluded niche of Kenma’s lips. When he nods, his hair pours forward to cover that fragment of happiness. Yet Kuroo knows it is there and that is what has always mattered to him most.

Kuroo uses his empty hand to tug the PSP from Kenma’s pocket and hands it back to him. “Here, you’ve been really anxious to get through this level.”

“Thanks,” he replies, switching back to where things left off and giving it another try.

But their hands do not break. Each clasping the other with equal strength. Kuroo occasionally flicks a finger at his side of the screen when a monster strays too close. They continue forward like that, pacing onward as the sun rotates lower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Kenma! Any guesses for what Kenma got Kuroo?
> 
> Up Next: Miscommunication and college is stressful, Kuroo worries about that.


	4. Reigning Distance

**August**

**Kuroo’s First Year at University**

* * *

  


Kuroo believes in the past year he has been overall happier. Maybe also less conflicted. If he discounts that one day prior to his high school graduation it is certainly true. Because despite a near collapse nothing had really changed. Kenma is still here, or at least close enough. He is smiling and laughing and _playing volleyball_. All the things Kuroo used to imagine impossible for Kenma to uphold alone. Yet since then mutual security has been maintained and even when Kuroo perceives a chance to shift building along their horizon, he waves it past. 

There is some sort of quiver in his chest when Kuroo thinks he is purposely fooling himself. That stagnation cannot be counted as true fulfillment. He has been missing so much. Only able to return occasionally to reciprocate the friendship that, for once, Kenma seizes the lead for. Because Kenma always seems to know when Kuroo needs him. It had taken less than a week for Kenma to memorize his schedule. While Kuroo admittedly had required much longer to learn it himself. He still gets lost in the math building from time to time. It had never been his strongest subject anyway; he supposes it just comes with the territory. 

It had been a tireless Wednesday when he returned to his room after practice. Lights filtered outward from the crack between door and frame while he jimmied the stubborn handle to find it unlocked. He would have assumed it meant Bokuto made it back before him, had they not just separated. Kuroo for their dorm and a much more satisfying shower than the chilly locker rooms, Bokuto for a group project at the library. But when the door gives way Kuroo had dropped his bags by their couch to find Kenma tucked into its corner, PSP in hand and eyes flashing across the screen. He did not even look up, no greeting, just the casual presence that Kuroo had come to love. 

And of course he sat down next to him, slipped into place along Kenma’s side with an arm reaching across his shoulders and head leaning closer to watch Kenma’s progress. He was tired, too tired. Finding his neck slumping to the side until his head rested against Kenma’s shoulder. 

The next morning he awoke to his alarm, its usual sound reverberating in a place that was still new. His head was smashed between two pillows like it always was and a blanket flopped to the rug when he sat up. Kenma was gone but his fingerprints lingered. In the extra bits of breakfast left covered on the coffee table, in the teapot waiting full on the stove, and the bedding taken from Kuroo’s mattress to craft the nest he had awoken in. He chuckles into the pillows and rests two light fingers atop the maroon leather strap circling his wrist. Everything perfectly comfortable.

It was peculiar to feel so full but to wake to a space so barren. He could hear muted snores from Bokuto’s room, the rush of his neighbor’s faucet through the wall, and a trace of early cars beyond the window. Each isolated, touching at the edge of his life though never truly mingling. He retains the blanket, enveloping himself with the fleece as he reaches for a piece of toast and thought he could fix this. Make everything better. Return to the position of supportive friend he forever strived to preserve.

So he had reciprocated, because he had always planned to and because it meant so much. But as the months stretched onward and spring turned to the fall semester Kuroo realized that between practice and preparation for a new slew of coursework he had not seen Kenma once over his break.

It should not matter though, he tells himself standing on the front stoop of Kenma’s childhood home. Nothing appears different. The same white curtains puff behind the glass of a window, waving with a slim summer gust. Leaves bristle and relax in an identical pattern. His foot elicits that creek from the top step while exhausted oak bemoans his additional weight. Kuroo likes to consider the sound a greeting. Just as he would have half a year ago. 

If it really did not make any difference than why was he waiting, holding out when his body was mere centimeters from an entrance that would bring him to what he holds most dear? _Don’t think about that_. In the end it is Kenma’s mother who opens the door before Kuroo has the opportunity to find a bravery he never knew he needed.

“It’s been so long!” she says, genuine and pleased as she wraps Kuroo in a kind hug. The top of her bun barely matches the height of his chest yet there is enough strength to remind him how much he has missed these too. The feeling of being taken care of, having a family at your back.

“It has,” he agrees because he does not know what else to say. He reciprocates, swathing her slight frame with his arms in turn. Even so she still takes the lead, lending a feeling that remains the most comforting.

She gives Kuroo a moment, seeming to know just how much he appreciates this before pulling back, though not too far. Reminding him they will constantly be there. Then Kenma’s father is at her back, not much taller than his wife and unexpectedly shorter than Kenma. His hand finds a nook between her neck and shoulder; thumb kneading absent ovals into the crisp fabric of her blouse while sharing a discreet smile. It is far quieter than his wife’s welcome nevertheless carrying all the same sentiment. He dawdles behind her, and Kuroo recognizes the indecision when his hands move. Like he cannot decide whether a hug or handshake is appropriate anymore. 

Of course it is Kenma’s mother who makes the decision for both of them when she pulls everyone together into a snug embrace. 

“Kenma’s upstairs,” he says. And Kuroo does not react, too busy recording every inflection of their movements and mannerisms. Filing the perception and the power and the timidity and the kindness into place where he knows it belongs to Kenma too. Sees the same bright eyes in Kenma’s mother and the cut jaw of his father. The high cheeks of his mother that connects to the calm delight of his father. 

And when Kenma’s mother says, “He’ll be really happy to see you,” Kuroo feels Kenma’s strong emotion. Buried for sure, but peeking out to reassure when needed. Always at the exact right time.

“Y–yeah,” Kuroo responds. Caught off guard after so long of forgetting the slivers of care he holds for these people. Who had grown into his family, adopted him as much as anyone could. 

Kuroo slips in and up the stairs with more speed than he expected. Kenma’s mother probably says something about bringing up tea or snacks later. But honestly it is less important than his current goal. He hears the warmth in her voice, knows their arms are around each other’s waists without having to look. Understands that is all he has ever wanted.

He throws Kenma’s door open and despite the red headphones covering his ears Kenma peers over from where he sits, scribbling out some paper at his desk. And Kuroo is stuck there, feet firmly cemented in that moment, caught to that plank in the floorboards and he never wants to go anywhere else.

Because — _fuck_. When did Kenma grow into the presence he sees here? The thin crescendo of thighs crossed in the chair, narrow hips turned toward him and an effortlessly carved expanse of chest clutching a little more tightly to that same stupid tiger t-shirt Kuroo had bought him in high school. The bend of Kenma’s arms and the shallow shift of detailed muscles running as taut ribbons beneath the skin when he takes the headphones from his ears to sling them around his neck. The extra gravel in Kenma’s hum when he focuses solely on Kuroo. And the timeworn volcano that flares in Kuroo’s stomach, bringing back every emotion he hoped he had repressed.

Kuroo knows he has probably changed too, given the way Kenma seems to study him in turn. Sure he is still taller, broader, but in the present moment he feels less secure. 

Kenma’s hair has changed too. The remaining bits of blond dye relegated to an irregular smattering at the tips. It teases a hint lower on his chin and Kuroo thinks how it would be to wind his hand through the strands, to push it back from Kenma’s face and explore all the new pieces and recall the old. 

Kenma blinks. Twists a clump behind his ear. 

_Thank you_. Kuroo thinks. Wondering if that strange mental connection they seemed to share had persevered all this time.

Kenma dips his head to the side, a visible message. _It has. Now are you going to come in?_

_Oh hell yes!_ And he is covering Kenma with his arms from behind the chair, tipping them both forward and smiling into the skin at the back of Kenma’s neck.

_I missed this_. He could cry those words. _I missed this, I missed this, I missed this_. He does not pull back, nuzzles nearer until his nose catches that familiar scent at the base of prickling hairs. _I missed you_.

Kenma turns to meet his grasp, face so close. Eyes a clear call. _I missed us_. Then that connection is forcibly sealed, locking Kuroo out until Kuroo wonders if he imagined what he just saw. 

He aches acutely to collect Kenma tighter in his arms. To block out that final traces of space that keeps them detached. To cinch together until they can no longer separate whose breath is whose.

But Kenma pulls back and Kuroo feels he made him uncomfortable. Held him for too long. And lost his chance. He tries to reach out for that connection, brush up against the vestiges of their link and feel the thrum of joined energy. All he receives is static, a poorly pitched radio and no dial to tune back in.

_You fucked up_. He stands back and has to say anything to keep them here, to move the friendship forward again. “What’re you working on?” Kuroo asks eventually, hand roving to indicate the paper discarded on the desk.

“Just an essay,” Kenma shrugs, “It’s nothing special.”

Kuroo wonders if that would have sounded more like, _I’m nothing special_ , if he could hear him.

Kuroo crosses to the bed, settling alongside fatigued quilts in search of the same ease he knows must be there.

They talk of little and Kuroo expects it should not matter but somehow it does. Kenma’s mother saves them when she brings a plate of tea and an assorted fare to nibble. Munching on a sandwich rejuvenates him in a way her cooking continually does, far preferable to the cheap university food he has been living with. He thumbs at the band on his wrist, restless habit surging. If he still cannot bring himself to fully reach for Kenma this will have to do.

He takes to wandering about the room after that, speaking stories he has not had the chance to share with Kenma and for a while the tension slackens. Maybe Kenma senses it too. Because he joins in with fragments of his own. Opening in pieces with every memory they add to their collective conscious. 

Kuroo dares for optimism when Kenma heads for the bathroom.

The room resumes its quiet with Kuroo alone and he takes advantage. Ready to unearth every possible way of reminding Kenma how heartily their bond holds. He bends beneath the window to outline a finger along the shelves there, mostly games and a few books. One with a memory he thinks, that would be good. But there are so many he recalls intensely that it is difficult to pull only one. There is the racing game, the first he ever managed to beat Kenma at though that could mostly be blamed on a . . . distraction. The weird puzzle game he hates but Kenma is so good at. The one with monsters they used to play on the train. The horror they decided was a brilliant idea the first night they were left at home alone for a few hours. 

He laughs to himself when he flicks out the weird cat game Lev decided was the perfect birthday gift for Kenma last year. Kenma had played it for hours and Lev knew it. They had been so happy. Kuroo flips it over, knocking a couple others from their precarious stack to the floor.

He begins picking each back up, fitting them into place where he could. Kenma has a system for the way he organizes everything and Kuroo has never been certain that he gets it completely right. The least favorites get the bottom shelf, he recalls that. Lev’s game had been relegated there out of simple spite but he slides it to the top anyway. 

Kuroo angles to the side, snatching up the last of them when he notices a bulky envelope in the trash. Its top sliced open with a jagged finger. He drops the games in his hand, recognizing the insignia stamped in the corner. It is not even crinkled when he takes it in hand and Kuroo senses that he should not pry. But this is Kenma and maybe they have been out of touch recently but that should not bear any weight for them. When he lifts it there are more beneath. 

And he knows these too. Dense letters from universities specializing in graphic design and game development. All the things Kenma excels at and Kuroo has heard him speak of with enough knowledge and reverence over the years that even when Kenma was discreet Kuroo knew how much they meant. Some are opened, the ones posted with dates a few weeks ago have been ripped, their insides turned out and discarded. All the recent packets stay sealed. 

Kuroo turns back to the first one, shaking fingers showing his nerves as he slashes the first page from the envelope. The leading line reads their congratulations and Kuroo feels his stomach flip. _Kenma had made it in. Kenma could go to his university_.

Of course he had thought of it fleetingly. But when they had mulled over possibilities last year he knew without having to ask that Kenma would kill him for passing up a chance to attend where he really sought just for the sake of finding something Kenma might follow him to. Not that he had ever planned on backing down from his dreams. 

He could not say this was an outcome he had ever fully anticipated. It was a heavily athletic school with admirable programs too but they did not concentrate in the majors that would get Kenma where he craved to be. 

Still he had applied. _But why?_

Kenma pads back into the room lifting a pile with towels, soap, and a spare toothbrush. He drops them by Kuroo before going to his closet.

“You’re staying.” He says, not forestalling it as a question. “I think you’ve still got some old clothes here though,” he glances at Kuroo’s form before hastening back to his busy hands. “I doubt they’ll still fit.”

“. . .Kenma?”

“Hm?”

Kuroo does not know how to start. 

Kenma turns entirely, aged sweatshirt in hand. “Kuro, what is it?”

The snug nickname fits back to him like it always had and he could crack apart in Kenma’s palms right now. Ignore it all if that meant he might still be endlessly tangled by Kenma’s side. But he is here to do better, to _be_ better. Not to force neediness upon him. Kuroo is no longer completely certain he chose correctly a year ago. Honestly would have been difficult but he is learning that to restrain a secret can be infinitely worse. Shoving to a stand he wordlessly hands the envelope to Kenma. Prying at Kenma’s secret, though, is wholly terrifying.

Kenma has never been the one who initiates their talks, so he waits until Kuroo finds his voice for a single word.

“Why?”

“Too expensive,” he says. “They don’t have a very good scholarship program if you’re not a top athlete.”

And ok, that should make sense. Except for all the others. He knows Kenma’s family is firmly at the lower end of middle-class but that should not stop him from—

“But all the others! They’re the thick envelopes, the ones that mean they want you. And you didn’t even open some,” he gestures to the trash. “And I know for sure some of them really wanted you.” He grabs a handful, “Look! A few mailed you twice. They’re checking for your answer.”

“I know,” he replies, still holding tight to that sweatshirt.

“You know?”

“Is it so weird to think that I can make plans too?” And Kuroo feels it then, the torrent of Kenma’s mind as it empties into his. _You haven’t even wanted to be here. Why should it matter now?_

Kuroo watches, looks as he has not for a long time. The tiredness is more evident than the last time. It appears when Kenma blinks, sluggish and weighty. Lids collapsing while lashes meet the deep purple black bruises imparted where sleep is missed. And Kuroo wonders if he has been awake too late recently. If he has been worrying about what he seems to have carelessly thrown away. Kuroo sees he has. 

He probes Kenma’s reactions but his reading has been cut off again when those eyes lock. They open and the sweatshirt drops, Kuroo’s gaze is forced away.

His head turns to away, to the chaotic desk and Kenma’s calendar pinned neatly above. Kuroo views his own schedule detailed in red pen alongside Kenma’s other appointments, not highlighted like new game releases but there in a color all his own. And it hurts that he had not remembered to do the same, that Kenma probably knew Kuroo had made an effort to not even think of Kenma’s games in a while. _Maybe some of me still found it hard to believe you had continued on, or was not sure it was what you truly wanted._

It stings when Kenma speaks from the doorway, deaf to Kuroo’s deliberations. “We’ll be playing Karasuno in a week.” It worsens when he adds, “Tsukishima’s gotten really good . . . I—I think he’s improved on some of the stuff you showed him before.” Kenma finishes as though he truly believes that is what Kuroo wants to hear, the information he wishes. Kuroo watches Kenma’s eyes shutter before him, close down further when he looks on a diagonal instead.

_I don’t want to know about him. I’m here for you._

The message does not make it through.

_It’s always been you._

Kenma kicks the sweatshirt aside, turns around, does not glimpse back.

_I wish I could explain. Wish I could make you know. Wish I had not been so stupid before. God I’m the biggest idiot, just like you used to say. I messed everything up again._

Kuroo kneels to finish what he started. Trying to find a place for everything left out of sorts.

_Would it have been different if I told you then? If I did not prompt the partial lie?_

He stares at Kenma’s back where he remains and senses the crevices in his chest expand, hollowing him from the inside out. Kenma steps into a shadow and Kuroo yearns to pull him back, drag him along like he had meant to before. But maybe this really is something he can no longer fix.

_I need to do something. And I’m still too scared._

He slams his own eyes to a close when his vision creeps into a blur, damp at the edges and growing with a pained heat. Everything is sucked away, pulling and dragging and hauling and tearing until all but that singular emotion has been plucked from his grasp. It blisters in a race across is skin, incinerating his center to leave a scorched muddle of ash without substance.

And he feels Kenma has kneeled in front of him, their knees touching and his hands sliding along Kuroo’s jaw, tipping his limp head up. Eyes bore into his and he can tell Kenma is trying to see everything in that singular instance. But Kuroo had given him that false information to work with, had not been completely honest a year ago. Had fashioned that first chink in their connection and blasted it with his own insecurity. 

“That was the wrong thing to say. Wasn’t it? But I thought . . . you still . . .”

Kuroo shakes his head. Never. But Kenma does not know that.

Kenma’s fingers drive back Kuroo’s bangs and his thumbs draw across Kuroo’s eyelids in a deliberate soothing motion. He feels some of the wet leave his skin with the action. Chasing the touch, Kuroo permits his head to tumble completely into Kenma’s grasp, dropping all of his weight into him. _So much for not being needy_.

“Just . . . the pressure . . . and time . . .” Kuroo has no idea how to explain even a strand of the jumble he has woven. _Do those words even touch on any of it?_

“I can take care of myself. I don’t need a hero Kuro. . . What I need is a friend.” _But I am not going to force it to be you. I don’t have to visit anymore. I’ll let you move on because that is what you want. To be more free._ And he sees clearly how Kenma believes him to only be back out of some sense of duty. Supposes he is here because it is what he feels he has to do. That the gravity of holding together his old friendship and life is too much paired along with his new responsibilities and lack of time.

 _No. You’re wrong. That’s not it at all. You have always held me together._ Kuroo wishes he could explain. But all his words are gone.

“What I need most is your happiness.” And Kenma’s voice is so quiet when he takes his hands back that Kuroo wonders if he is the only one in the world who could ever hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors in this section! I just realized I had not posted anything in over a week and rushed to pull something together tonight. Feel free to let me know if you found anything out of place or confusing, especially with all the italicized portions and I will definitely see what I can do to smooth it out.
> 
> As always, thank you very much for reading.
> 
> Up Next: Kuroo is an actual angel and Kenma hides in the bushes.


	5. Lunch

**July**

**Kuroo’s First Year of Middle School**

* * *

  


It had surprised him the first time he had noticed that head of shadowy hair tangled beneath the bushes separating their two schoolyards. Kuroo assumed his solitude was playing tricks on his mind, allowing him to see a sight he wished was present but was, in reality, still a building away. Less than a minute and half walk yet far enough to be annoying. 

He checked anyway. Just in case. Crawling through compact hedges until an opening allowed him to stand and throw a deep grin to his waiting friend. Kenma had not been smiling, at least not outwardly. But his delight gleamed blatant in the extra flash of his eyes, the tap of a sneaker, and the way he canted his head until that usual veil of hair parted to uncover fresh cheerful crinkles above his cheeks. And since then it had become their own place. Simple and serene. 

While Kuroo persisted in working to make more friends, joining the volleyball team and pulling classmates toward him with a gravity Kenma had always insisted he possessed, Kuroo still saved lunch times for he and Kenma alone. 

Today he is nearly five minutes late. His teacher holding him behind with a few others to finish correcting incomplete math worksheets. _Doesn’t she know I have important things to do?_ But no, apparently she does not. Because if she did it would not be taking so long for her to circle each answer with the blue pen and search through her top drawer for an encouraging star sticker. _I don’t want a sticker, I want to be with Kenma._

When Kuroo does eventually make it outside he cannot find Kenma at first. He begins to wonder whether he had taken too long, if Kenma had given up on him for the day, or if perhaps Kenma has a persistent teacher and math worksheet too. But Kuroo thinks that cannot be true. Kenma is a good student and he would never neglect Kuroo when it is important. At least, Kuroo believes their lunches count as important. _Kenma thinks so too, right?_

But then he locates him. Tucked further into the brambles than usual, with prickers tearing at his shirt. Kenma’s back is to Kuroo, head down and knees scrunched to his chest. His lunchbox is tipped on its side, contents disturbed and littered across the ground at Kuroo’s feet.

“Kenma?” Kuroo keeps his voice quiet as he stretches out a hand to Kenma’s turned shoulder even as a stone sinks deep in his stomach. _Something’s wrong._ Kenma is trembling beneath his palm, a slight hiccup given in response but he does not turn around. Then he feels it, the smidge of wet trickling to catch on the edge of Kenma’s jaw. _Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong._

“Kenma please look at me,” he tries. This time Kenma responds with another muffled hiccup but turns to press his face into Kuroo’s jacket. He wraps his arms around Kenma, pulling him as tight as he can and clenching inward. Kuroo brings a hand to the back of Kenma’s head, caught in the habit of running his fingers through the hairs there to soothe. Yet he merely catches on short strands chopped roughly. As though they had been hacked with a hasty and crude blade. A few bumps emerge as well, slices already turning to thin scabs on his scalp where something sharp had extended past its intended mark. Kuroo peels back a bit, hands moving to study Kenma further. 

Kenma lets him but does not move much to accommodate the action. Kuroo is ok with that, not wanting Kenma to go very far. He discovers the beginnings of a bruise burgeoning just below Kenma’s neck and another smattering of lighter ones, appearing as the purpling fingerprints of rough hands. There is a slight wince when he touches Kenma’s ribcage, he can feel each rise and fall of bone and Kuroo thinks Kenma should be eating more. He does not pull up the shirt to inspect though, too worried by what he will see. 

It seems best to begin with something simple, a part he can remedy. Kuroo adjusts, removing his own lunchbox from his bag and sliding it toward Kenma with an ease born of swapping snacks many times before. Kenma takes it with more hesitance than usual, not having his own to trade pieces with Kuroo. But Kuroo will have none of it. He snaps off the lid and hands Kenma a single chopstick, using his own to stab a piece of chicken as he does. 

“Think of it like a game,” Kuroo says, as the chicken drops from the chopstick before he can get a bite. He jabs at it again, brows drawn with renewed attention. “You’re good at those.”

There is some relief in Kenma’s gaze as he prods at a carrot, the vegetable slipping around the box as he chases it. Kuroo brackets the carrot with his own chopstick and Kenma snatches the opportunity to plunge through it, chewing successfully an instant later.

“I always liked things you can play as a team better anyway,” Kuroo muses and the slight incline of Kenma’s head makes him think he may have gotten some agreement out of him.

They continue on like that for a while, paying scant consideration as their break time filters by. Kenma pushes a head of broccoli to Kuroo’s side and Kuroo flicks over another sliced carrot. The chicken has all but disappeared. Kuroo does not notice right away that Kenma is saving most of their lunch for him but when he does a shallow sound of vague annoyance grumbles from his throat.

“Eat.” He prods, sticking a gentle chopstick at Kenma’s bruise-free arm. 

Kenma complies hesitantly, eating with a little more fervor. When all they have left is rice Kuroo forces his chopstick at Kenma so he can munch the rest normally. Even so, Kuroo finds Kenma leaves some piled in the corner when the box makes its way back to Kuroo’s grasp. 

“You never listen,” Kuroo fusses before yielding to Kenma’s insistent offering. He finishes up, stowing the lunchbox in his bag and taking a moment to pry out one of the apples he keeps in the front pocket. He considers for a moment, shoving the apple into Kenma’s grasp before digging around in the bottom of the bag once more. Kuroo draws out a pair of scissors and Kenma eyes him. 

The question waits, clear between them. Kuroo holds them in an outstretched palm, raised up. _Do you mind?_

“I think I can help even it out,” Kenma snorts, skeptical at the notion. “Well at least a little!”

“Ok,” Kenma does not hesitate, turning to sit cross-legged with his back to Kuroo. Kuroo moves closer, getting up on his knees so he can inspect his canvas more closely. And he gives it a try.

The scissors are barely capable of cutting through paper and much less well suited for Kenma’s thick hair. Kuroo privately gripes over the invention of child safety scissors because in this moment he requires something better, more deserving and more capable of performing the job he needs. The work he wants to accomplish to help Kenma right now. 

Regardless, Kuroo works in careful snips, meticulous fingers taking only a few strands at a time and striving to neaten the trim as best he can. His left hand absently massages the scalp while his right hand persists, not even noticing the motion as he continues. Giving comfort is just a natural part of his friendship with Kenma.

“We can tell your mom I just wanted to try cutting your hair to give you a new look, and this bruise,” he adds dusting a light finger over the mark, “volleyball. My serves still aren’t very accurate and it’s believable. I’ve hit you in the face before.”

Kenma looks up, a clear _thank you_ ready to tremble from his lips. But . . .

“Don’t you dare thank me!” Kuroo chides, “I should have been here earlier, t–to help more.” And now he is the one trembling, sensing pricks of heat and wet wibble behind his eyelids. He slaps a hand there to catch it but Kenma’s gentle palms are already on his writs, bringing Kuroo’s hands to rest in his. Kuroo strangles the sobs before they can catch at his throat. This is about Kenma, not him. He refuses to be the one crying right now. As awful as everything is. 

“Look at me,” Kenma says, voice steady and a clear repetition of how Kuroo entered the scene earlier. “None of this is your fault. They just took some issue with my . . .” his words fade and Kuroo is not sure he wants to press. But Kenma has always let him in and this time is no exception. “My demeanor and appearance and,” another short pause, “my friends.”

“What!? But I’m—,”

“The greatest?” He smirks, eyes coming alive with fresh light and brilliance at the consideration of what a more spirited Kuroo might say. “Yeah I know, guess they just think it’s a bit weird for me to be so attached to someone older when I should know my place.” He shrugs and it hurts.

“Well they,” he has to stop, voice too rough to articulate, “They don’t know _anything_. You’re the best! No the greatest! One hundred percent perfect friend material. I’m lucky you’re here. I mean you were my first real friend anyway.” He squeezes back at Kenma’s wrists and Kenma looks over his shoulder.

“You should probably head back now,” Kenma says, noting the oncoming conclusion of lunch.

“No way! I’m not leaving you by yourself.”

“Your parents won’t like it if you miss school. And your teacher will have to call them if you do,” he reminds. And though it is true Kuroo hates the implications.

There is a moment before Kuroo decides how he can respond. How he can fix the situation without eliciting more attention. “Here,” he discards his uniform jacket and tugs off the sweatshirt from underneath, presenting it to Kenma. “Take this. You can put up the hood and no one will notice the difference. Plus it will kind of help shelter your face like your hair used to. Maybe it’ll be comfortable,” he finishes, hope plunging forward as he jerks his jacket back on.

Kenma does not wrinkle his nose in distaste at the smell. Kuroo knows it probably reeks, since he has been wearing it for a week and putting it on after volleyball too. Neither of them seem to mind. Instead, Kenma’s face portrays his gratitude without him having to say it. And Kuroo is so thankful that they know each other this well by now. Kuroo surveys Kenma and decides it is not a bad image. Still it is a bit too long and as Kenma rolls the sleeves Kuroo helps tuck in the front.

“You look great!” he says, not able to hide the enthusiasm and showing Kenma a thumbs up to reinforce the feeling. He thinks it might help.

Kenma retrieves his overturned lunchbox from the dirt, wiping the cover with a sleeve and packing it into the capacious sweatshirt pocket. The two stand to head back in their respective directions when Kuroo speaks once more. “I’m skipping practice today. I’ll tell ‘em I’m sick or something. Then we can both walk home early.” _And by home I mean we’re going to your house._

Kenma shakes his head, face partially obscured by the hood as Kuroo pulls it more securely into place for him. “You don’t have to do that Kuroo. I’m really fine.”

“Taking days off to rebuild your strength is just as important as the time you spend on the court. There is always a balance to it,” he says in what he hopes Kenma will think is a wise voice. He doubts it works. “And today I have decided will be a rest day.”

_Plus,_ Kuroo thinks, _I could be given the choice between the whole world and you and I still know what I would pick. Every time._

“Promise to wait up for me tonight. I won’t be late.” 

_I’m saying I’d pick you, Kenma._

“Oh, ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That should be it for the angsty stuff for a while. No more tears, just fluff!
> 
> Up Next: Kenma thinks Kuroo makes a poor decision and Kuroo completely agrees.


End file.
